He had expected more of the place, Rushton remembered. It had been chosen, in effect, as the setting for a drama, a resolution of everything he had assumed marriage would resolve.
He had walked with Pamela along the promenade, and as they approached the grand, slightly jaded-looking pier, he wondered if she was feeling as hesitant as he seemed to be. Hand in rather self-conscious hand, they both advanced up the first, gently creaking planks of the pier, and paid the elderly male attendant, who stood, like some kind of sentinel, at the main entrance of the place. In front of them stretched a row of stalls, garishly coloured with flourishes of paintwork, bristling with gaudy souvenirs.
“I must get a postcard for Mummy”, said Pamela, with that same, slightly self-conscious manner, as though she wanted to appear less childish towards her mother than she really felt.
“Of course!” He gazed, partly at her eyes, and partly at her complexion, which, rose-tinted in the early light of day, was beautiful, against the wide blue-streaked sky and the sandy-grey cliff-tops.
“Here!” he said, awkwardly producing some money from his pocket, “You can choose one for mine as well.”
They were about to advance towards a stall of rather dog-eared, sea-blown postcards, when a voice at his side spoke eagerly:
“Shall I take your picture?” A child’s voice, a little girl’s - in a coat rather too large for her, she stood brandishing her camera, and rather than look at their startled faces, she raised her hands and was about to take the picture, when Rushton, in what he hoped was a suitably generous manner, spoke quickly –
“Wait! I can take yours as well!”
He raised his eyebrows at Pamela, as if to say “Yes, we might as well make a game of it”, and continued, “If you go back, say, to there,” (he motioned to the girl with his hand) “Pamela and I can sit on these chairs for the picture.”
He got his own camera out of its well-worn case, and looked through the viewer. The girl had already stepped a good few feet away, and was facing straight back at him, with both hands holding the camera to her face.
“You ready?” he asked, in a kindly, casual way.
She nodded her head, so he pressed down his shutter and heard, as he did so, her triumphant cry….
Yes! It was done. Her very own picture. Rushton sat back with a smile.
I like the tone of this as always, although you haven't really solved any of the problems of the girl's existence. Perhaps you didn't mean to.
ReplyDeleteI think you would do well to take this out of the past perfect tense and make it simple past, for more immediacy. As well as some good phrasing ('hand in self-conscious hand') there is some awkward phrasing, e.g. 'he wondered if she was feeling as hesitant as he seemed to be.' Seemed to whom? And if to her, how does he know?